


and there was bad blood between us

by erlkoenig



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls II: Daggerfall, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Death, M/M, More angst, Pre-Final battle, even more angst, i crawled in this dumpster in 1996 good fucking luck getting me out, lich mannimarco, listen, there might be a ficlet with a happy ending in here somewhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: a collection of ficlets and filled prompts from tumblr about those tragic nerd wizards, mannimarco and vanus "trechtus" galerion; these are all standalone unless otherwise noted and can be read in any order





	1. our love is a ghost (that the others can't see)

He supposes it was always meant to be like this. Some final thing, good versus evil, however it was meant to be written. It hurts, in a dull, foreign sort of ache, that he might go down on the wrong side of history.  
  
It’s all written by the victors, or so they say, But he knows, feels it run through him in nerves, in marrow, in his bones, that however this ends, he will always be on the wrong side of history.  
  
In a way he’s proud, marks it in his favor, how far he’s come from that jealous thing in Artaeum, fighting for recognition. Fighting until there was a better option, a softer option, short lived in its kindness.  
  
He’s not ready to die, to surrender. There’s a part of him that screams _neither is he, it’s not too late, it’s not too late._  
  
But too late is a two way road, and he meets him on this, their final battlefield. There’s nothing between them, no army, no glorious battle. The history books will remember it differently, someone has to be the villain, but here, right here in this moment, it is only them.  
  
it’s not supposed to be this way. He knows it, clasps his hand behind his back and meet Vanus at the apex of the mountain. It’s so quiet, eerily quiet, a hesitation that speaks to a fear the both feel, deep inside. 

One cannot live without the other.

It never should have come to this.  
  
There he is, golden in his glory, valiant Vanus Galerion, hero of the free mages of Tamriel. The sun shines behind him even here, at the end of all things, in his darkness. Soft at his edges, soft where his sword is drawn, where the magic crackles against his fingertips and he thinks, beautiful, so beautiful. It makes his heart swell, tugs at the strings of nostalgia, 

Maybe, in another life, they could have been happy.  
  
Once upon a time, so long, long ago, they were.  
  
Vanus speaks of salvation, of absolution, of vengeance tainting words of forgiveness and love. He’s gone, gone, gone. Mannimarco,  a name, a title, he feels the sigh wrack his frame in it’s finality.   
  
The history books say, _You will live as befits the dead._  
  
The history books say, _You die first._  
  
They get it wrong, so wrong.   
  
Mastery over life and death means never having to say, _I will see you again one day._  
  
It means never having to say, _I’m sorry, old friend._

It means never hearing, _Goodbye._

He casts the spell, stardust against his fingertips, pulling with the clench of a fist and pulling, pulling tearing against skin and bone and pulling into the gem at his neck. _Let me show you, let me explain, let me let me let me…_  
  
There’s a rule, unbreakable even in this, the end of all things, unwilling and stubborn and isn’t that why he loved so fiercely? He should have known, he should have known…  
  
Pulls, as the knife slips between bone, between muscle, between sinew, watches as the light leaves blue eyes and still believes in a just and loving god, a just and loving world where here, at the end of all things, he might change his mind.  
  
_it means never having to say goodbye_

He can feel it frantic against his palm, against his own ribs, echoed in his throat, that _thrum-beat-scream_ of the dying. Holds on tight like it might make a difference and feels it slip.

_beat-beat-beat-silence-silence-nothingnothingnothing_

Here, at the end of all things. A frantic flutter, beat of wings in his hands and then nothing, the cold press of a gem and another failure.  
  
A whisper of a name on his lips, a prayer. Please, don’t let this be the end.  
  
Here, the end of all things.


	2. i don't recognize this world we've made

He hides their histories between a timeline of the empire and some biography of some king of Daggerfall, things that Vanus would ask about instead of read. Perhaps it’s silly, perhaps it’s pointless. Perhaps they’re doomed to repeat a history over and over until their mutual destruction, but he wedges the books between others and pretends he can stave off oblivion just one more day.  
  
He studies the magic in the corner of the Arcaneum, writes books on books on theories and at the end of the day, the week, the month, the year, he still doesn’t understand.  
  
Somewhere, there’s a moon that shines for him, with him, from him. Somewhere, there’s a husk that tells him that love songs don’t have happy endings, somewhere, there’s proof that ballads are nothing more than fanciful stories. And yet…

And yet, they are. Some perverted second chance. It seems vulgar, and he responds to a name he never owned, smiles and pretends that there’s no such thing as another life. Another lie.  
  
Leans out the window over the courtyard, watches Vanus, alive, so alive, Traces every movement of his body with his eyes, with his fingertips when they’re alone.   
  
Pours over tomes of some half-forgotten history, bittersweet in it’s fractured light. There’s a world where he has what he wants, this and that one, god and not. Touches a breathing, living thing, falls asleep to the rise and fall of his chest and counts the days.  
 _  
one, two, three, four_  
  
Pretends there’s a just world where he can have everything he wants, and that one day it won’t come crashing down around him  
  
 _five, six, seven, eight_  
  
Watches the moonlight shining down on an altar and tells himself this is fine, it’s all fine. 


	3. as though fire burns under your feet

There are letters that come, thin knives that cut into skin before he can even break the seal. Letters with threats, with promises, talk of absolution in one line and retribution in another. Short things, summer storms that howl and fight, trying to destroy everything they can touch and then gone in a moment, leaving behind the soft scent of wet earth and the grave.  
  
There are letters that come, thick bundles of cream paper that smell sweetly, delicately, elderflower wine and incense that takes him back so many years when home was a word with meaning. Rambling things written with a shaky hand by candlelight, midnight endeavors to make some sort of sense of it all.   
  
 _I watched the sun rise this morning, it was so beautiful I cried._  
I saw a weird bird, have you ever seen this before?  
Just tell me why.  
  
He doesn’t have answers for him, not the ones he wants and not the ones they need. Folds each letter and adds it to the pile that spills over shelves and onto the floor, wedged between books and tucked between pages. Loses them in the sea of parchments and papers, pages and pages of notes strewn in some organized chaos until he finds a page out of place, a piece that doesn’t belong with handwriting that’s not his. 

It goes to the bottom of the piles with a promise of fire later, always later, always. 


	4. there was bad blood in us (were we broken right from the start)

There’s something poetic in it, the crash of thunder that shakes the ground beneath Vanus’ feet, the only warning before the rain comes. Electricity arcs through clouds, lights up the sky in flickers of blue and white, reflects across the windows of the spire.  
  
Ceporah Tower, ancient thing, of course it would be here. It’s plucked straight from some fanciful novel, like one of those he has found hidden under their pillows with no given reason for it’s presence, of course.  
  
The heavy doors swing shut behind him and it’s quiet in here, save the the echo of the rain and wind, ghostly murmurings in the darkness.   
  
It’s foolish perhaps, this half-thought plan, but in those novels, the hero rushes in just in time to save the day, doesn’t he?   
  
He races up the winding stairs, climbing and climbing, turning over words in his mind. What to say, what to do, what do I do?  
  
“Vanus!” He hears him before he sees him, and when he does, he’s speechless. There’s sweat on his face, strands of hair clinging to skin and cheeks flushed with some effort. There’s a smile on his face, sharp white teeth in the dim light of the storm outside and the candlelight and he’s _beautiful._  
  
“Mannimarco, what are you doing?” His words carry across the stones and then drown in the roll of thunder, muted here in these halls.   
  
“Vanus, you’re just in time to see, come have a look.” He’s a flutter of movement, rifling through pages of notes and the clatter of tools on the table, knives and curved instruments Vanus doesn’t recognize. There are gems, soft purple things like chunks of raw amethyst, some broken and discarded in this chaos. I’ve done it Vanus, I’ve found a way to–”  
  
“You must stop this.”  
  
There’s nothing but the sound of the rain, heavy and angry on the white stones of the spires, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing within, rolling almost tangible across the room like the approach of dark thunderheads.  
  
Lightning flashes outside, brilliant in it’s wrath, lights the room and throws Mannimarco’s face into shadow and he wishes he could see him, but perhaps it’s all too late.  
  
“Oh?” The words are measured, careful. “And are _you_ going to stop me?”  
  
The rumble of thunder before the rain.


	5. we were born to fuck each other (one way or another)

Softness is reserved for those rare moments when they are alone. So few, so far between that he begins to wonder if they ever were, if those times so long ago were nothing more than fever dreams, whispered wishes of what might have been had they been different.  
  
 _the iniquitous Mannimarco and his Order of the Black Worm; it is all part of his program to make necromancy seem commonplace and almost harmless  
_  
 _then with lowborn cunning cast me as the villain_  
  
He tries not to think about it, it’s just this game they play, one face to the public and another here, alone, when it’s just them.  
  
Here, until words pull taught between teeth, spill out with accusations like little darts, pricking everywhere and anywhere, blindly striking out to do as much damage as they can before they are silenced.   
  
Someone leaves, someone stays, and the wounds fester brighter, deeper, bleed onto pages and words condemning each to their own sides. Weeks between visits become months, stretch into years and then decades.   
  
How long is too long until it’s too late? He thinks, perhaps, there is some saving it. Perhaps.  
  
Reaches for a pen and the hurt comes back, digs under skin and he lets the ink stain the paper beyond saving. 


	6. the sweet talk of the storm

The Harvest Masquerade, it's one of his better ideas for the guild.

_ Color! _ He laughs, waves his hand and floats deep purple and blue drapery across the hall, ties them back with gold and copper accents.  _ Let it be colorful, chase away the chill of creeping winter. _

It was a success the year before, bedecked in burnt oranges, reds, bronze yellows and autumn colors. The smell of spice and roots, wet earth and decay.

_ It had brought back painful memories. _

Color, he says, and everyone agrees. Color. They discuss their masks and costumes, sending for fabrics from all over Tamriel.

He holds another feather to his hair as the seamstress marks the edges of his robes for hemming.

Color, this year.   
  
  
\--

  
"Oh, Archmagister! What a terrific costume, why I must say you are the most radiant at the masquerade, as ever!"

Vanus chuckles, presses his fingers against his chest and grins in mock-humility. "Oh please, if you flatter me like this I'm going to develop an ego."

"An ego fit for such a lovely bird."

He mingles, every movement strikes a pose an elegant silhouette. Peacock feathers tucked into his dark hair, adorn his robes in teals and blues and purples, golds and coppers, delicate brocade holding delicate feathers in place and tracing along the edges. There are alchemical symbols in the stitching and every new angle brings more gasps of delight and murmurings.

He surrounds himself in the attention, it's a distraction he needs.

There's the soft scent of frankincense on the air, cinnamon and myrrh. Spiced coffee and sweet wines and pale cakes from High Rock's courts. Pomp and circumstance, a distraction.

  
\--

  
The stranger stands out in the crowd, drifts into the main hall like a ghost and smiles a secret sort of smile as the whispers.

Black and white. High collared and feathered. Someone says it reminds them of the bone-eaters. Someone whispers back that it's almost tasteless. Someone else drunkenly slurs that black is a color.

There's white powder on their face and white shimmering powder in their hair. Vanus frowns behind his mask, feels his heart skip a beat and wonders if the white is natural or all powdered and could it be, could it be?

No it's foolish to hope.

_ Bone-eaters. _

He drains his wine and watches. The stranger seems to float, a shadow moving through a sea of color. Birds and blooms and galaxies, and there, this space between the stars, drifting at once aimless and with purpose.

He watches the stranger accept a glass of champagne with a curt bow, an easy smile and it's all charm and eloquence, a curtsy of movement and yet all the airs of better-than, holier-than. Rings adorn long, slender, pale fingers and he feels the pull, gravity towards this black bird that has come to devour, to conquer.

They lock eyes across the room, somehow, behind the masks. They lock eyes and he doesn't know for sure and yet  _ he knows. _ Would know anywhere. It doesn't matter, he must go.

The Palatinus steps in front of him, oblivious, discusses guild business until he realizes he may, perhaps, be in the way. When Vanus steps away, the stranger has somehow disappeared.

  
\--

  
He moves through the crowd, following the pull, the gravity of their orbits. He can smell juniper, wet earth, spiced wines. Stops and takes a breath, several long breaths, pulls his face into a smirk and reaches through the sea of bodies and takes the stranger's hand.

"Dance with me?"

"Why, archmagister, I would be delighted."

He knows that whisper, even disguised, breathy and gravelled at once. He knows, pulls him in close and looks. He has that privilege.

High collars of white feathers, hair gathered simply in a loose ponytail, white and ashy powder streaked across his face under the mask.

"You are hardly subtle, Mannimarco."

There's a smile, a flash of teeth. "Oh? And I suppose the peacock was all you had left to wear tonight?"

He laughs, wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him close enough to feel the quiet pound of Mannimarco’s  heart even through layers of fabric and feathers. "I suppose we are both rather predictable."

"When did you know?"

"As soon as you came in, no one else can silence a crowd the way you can."

He can feel the press of lips against his neck and shivers.


	7. clair de lune (i the mountain choose the moon to envy)

Someone tells him there are many histories and all of them are right so he makes another tick mark on the calendar and waits.

Somewhere in the void there’s a world where the history books never mention their names, and maybe it’s because they never meet or maybe it’s because they’re happy. There’s a story told somewhere, some time, where they made it. Where they faced the darkness together and didn’t let go.

He likes those stories.

He counts the days in little, dark lines on the calendar pages and dreams. 

(there’s a history somewhere, he knows, where he can’t do this and he doesn’t like those dreams)

He cuts flowers and puts them in a vase, carries them to stones and waits. Clears the altar and places the vase, tilts his face up to the moon. 

(he wonders if somewhere, far away from here, in another life maybe he’s looking down from the sky and their places are reversed)  
(that one’s not so bad)

Midnight comes like a cool hand on his skin, touches and it’s a shock every time, the sharp draw of a gasp between gritted teeth and then leaning into the light for as long as he can. 

“Hello again friend.”

Vanus tilts his face up to the sky and talks to the moon.


	8. when there's nothing left to burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> six sentence story from tumblr -- prompt: "Vanus + Family"

_Have you thought about settling down one day–_

  
He smiles politely each time, brushes it away with _oh no, I’m married to my research._  It's gentle, easy, not quite a lie – one he can handwave away with the guild and his work. They tsk and they frown but they let it drop for now.

  
(Maybe, once upon a time, he dreamed of waking up to golden eyes with the sunrise, a little house, perhaps a dog. Maybe, once upon a time, he dreamed.)


	9. we woke up to the thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> six sentence story prompt on tumblr: Vanus + Mannimarco + "trust"

When the mountain falls Vanus reaches for him, in spite of it all; a twitch of fingers and a desperate sound tearing from his throat. Eyes wide in terror and not for the chaos crumbling around them.

  
Predictable Trechtus, naive thing, believing the lie every time – _we can go back to the way it used to be, this time, this time, this time._

  
He calls for him when the dust settles, _face me Trechtus, face what you have brought upon yourself,_ and the silence that echoes back to him is deafening.

  
(it was always too late, always too late, there was no going back)


	10. following my feet until it's gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt for a sequel to "the sweet talk of the storm" (the masquerade ball)

_“When did you know?”  
  
“As soon as you came in, no one else can silence a crowd the way you can.”  
  
He can feel the press of lips against his neck and shivers.  
  
_There are eyes on them, though the swell of the music keeps their whispers between them. Vanus tightens his grip, hand at the small of his back as if to say _mine, be mine, just mine a little longer._  
  
“I thought large parties were supposed to be more intimate,” and he’s pulling away from Vanus, as always, always like this. “Think you can find me again?”  
  
His heart pounds up into his throat and he nearly reaches for him, nearly grabs fistfuls of black feathers to demand he stay, threaten to unmask him if he leaves, but he only asks, “here?”  
  
There’s a laugh, loud in the lapse of silence between songs but Vanus doesn’t take his eyes off him for a moment to see who is still watching, knows he’ll disappear if he does.   
  
“I only just arrived, darling, would I leave so soon?”  
  
 _Yes,_ the word sticks in his throat and he can only watch him step back into the crowd, a wraith moving between the revelers as if suddenly, suddenly he never existed at all. There is someone in front of him, speaking, perhaps asking about the stranger, perhaps asking him to dance. He blinks and knows he’s lost him.   
  
—  
  
Wine courses through his veins, leadens his tongue and eyelids, drags his muscles through the movements and he takes another glass. Drains half of it, waves away another concerned look, concerned touch with a laugh and begs a moment outside alone, _I need some fresh air, I think._   
  
The moon hangs low, bright and full tonight and he follows his feet away from the party, into the silence away from the music and the voices until he’s alone with his thoughts.  
  
But he’s not alone. He knows, like he knows the crackle of lightning over his skin. Brighter than moonlight and as burning as stars. He knows, breathes like he’s been holding it since he felt him slip from his grasp.   
  
“I knew you would find me.”  
  
“No you didn’t.” He says, with all the finality of knowing. “You were leaving.”  
  
“Then I’ve been leaving for the past hour.”  
  
He doesn’t believe him, but he reaches for him all the same, blindly fumbling in the dark and not even the moon can reach them now. Fingers brush against the edge of his robes and he twists the fabric in his grip, pulls at feathers until they pull free. Desperate and clawing, and he hates that it’s like this, every time, all the time, always. Always on the edge of leaving, one of them.   
  
This is how the story goes. One of them must leave. This is how it has always been.   
  
“Can I make you stay?”  
  
There’s that laugh again and it’s almost cruel but he doesn’t care, loves the way it bites into his skin like teeth, softened by the lips of a lover.   
  
He can taste some half-remembered snatch of poetry behind his teeth, something about love and hate and how they are nearly the same. It tastes like copper, like gold, like blood and wine.   
  
He’s never liked poetry.  
  
“Stay.” And there are lips on his, silencing his pleas, swallowing them and he thinks of a thousand arguments he can murmur against them. A thousand words he could say just to make the moment last a little longer.   
  
Just a little longer.


	11. learn to lay beneath the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt from tumblr: Mannimarco + Kuebiko (a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence)

Everything creaks and groans in the silence, in the dark. He can hear it echoing over the barrow walls, the slow grind of bones against bones, the soft scratch of robes against them with every movement. Sometimes, he thinks he can still feel _something_ , some fleeting half-chased thing that he might have been something else, something different once before this.

He creaks, the rattle and clink of fingers against glass and gems, no not this one, not that one, none of these are right. He wants to sigh but there is nothing to draw in air, the imagined whistle between slats of an empty rib cage and he presses his bones between them until he remembers this is worth it all. All of it, the pay off, the reward. Greatness comes with a risk and he knew, he knew from the beginning it would be like this.

Yes, yes he knew.

“Isn’t that right?” He asks, clattering as he turns, a moment of unsteadiness, jumbled joints and desiccated sinews but for that moment he is a thousand miles, a thousand years away from the here and now. He waits for the sound of a hum, a breath, a sharp word telling him he got himself into this mess himself, _leave me out of it thank you very much._

Waits for the sounds of a page turning, a snatch of some nonsense song he’s nearly forgotten. Waits, and when it doesn’t come he sweeps his hand across the desk, send books and gems and instruments to the ground. They scatter, clanging against the stone floor and it’s too much, too loud, and he’s –

–back there, and the mountain is coming down around him and he’s laughing and he’s–

tired. He’s tired. He can feel it in his bones and he wants to laugh at it, laugh at his own private little joke but there’s a whistling between the slats of his ribs. 

_it’s alright it’s alright it’s—_

**Author's Note:**

> moringottos.tumblr.com


End file.
